


Words

by lescousinsdangereux



Category: Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/pseuds/lescousinsdangereux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a song, your relationship with Chloe Beale; it's a song with verses and a hook and a chorus. But you can't break it apart and fit it back together in a way that's easier and simpler for you to understand, like you normally might. Because...maybe it's perfect just the way it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Pitch Perfect story, written some time ago, but I've been told I should start transitioning to Ao3, so here I am, way late in the game.

_They were hummin' a tune;_

_The sun and the moon,_

_They didn't know what to think,_

_But they were pleased to see these two young souls become mates—_

_To provide light for a song that was sung right in one take_

_Because there's no need to rehearse when you and your partner get in the zone_

_And you can't memorize words you've always known_

[Something Grown Together by Flobots]

 

\---

 

It starts on a Tuesday night, which is funny, really, because _nothing_ starts on a Tuesday—nothing of worth at least. But there are exceptions to every rule and pre-conceived notion, so it’s kind of stupid to ever think in absolutes, isn’t it?

But whatever. It starts on a Tuesday when you’re lying in Chloe’s full (which is big enough for you both to sleep without touching, but you can’t remember the last time you did _that_ ), and your head is resting on her collarbone—just above her heart, maybe—and you’re talking about kisses for some reason, and Chloe whispers to you that she’s never kissed a girl, and your head just sort of comes up and…

Okay. So maybe it doesn’t really start on a Tuesday night.

 

\---

 

Maybe it starts on a Saturday afternoon at an Activities Fair where you catch a pair of blue eyes across a mass of people that crowd in on you and push against your shoulders and you _can’t believe_ you left your headphones in your room in your mad rush to get away from Dr. Mitchell, Professor Extraordinaire (Dad Extraordinaire, not so much). But anyways, you notice those blue eyes and that red hair and then it’s all over because Chloe Beale is talking to you about a cappella and you don’t know it yet, but your life has just been quietly derailed. And you’re the oblivious passenger, sleeping in your seat, not noticing the bumps and jumps until the train is already halfway down the hill, completely off its tracks.   

 

\---

 

Or maybe it’s on a Wednesday morning (afternoon?) when those same eyes appear in your goddamn _shower_ , and as captivating as they are, it’s a bit difficult to focus on them when every other part of the woman is very much on display.

And then you sing together, and that’s it. Because maybe you don’t care much for letting people in, but music has always touched at the places of you that you close off with metaphorical gates and walls and moats. And when the clear voice of Chloe Beale is ringing out in that shower stall, it (and the woman behind it) slip in through the back entrance that you hadn’t fully realized existed until that moment.

Like the girl is music incarnate.

 

\---

 

Things happen after that—like things tend to do. You join the Bellas, you leave the Bellas, you join them again. And maybe when you’re singing _Just a Dream_ the ‘ _her_ ’s and ‘ _she_ ’s’ come out a bit too naturally and maybe they bring to mind blue eyes that flick to yours for the briefest of moments throughout _Just The Way You Are_. It feels a bit like a love song and not a piece of something that you can break apart and fit back together in a way that’s easier and simpler for you to understand. 

And if that doesn’t scare the hell out of you, then nothing ever has.

But then more things happen, like winning Nationals and kissing Jesse and dating Jesse. And that’s just fine, because Jesse is a song that’s easy to mix into the soundtrack of your life; the _Don’t You (Forget About Me)_ that meshes with your bass line without much effort on your part or his—a lot less effort than adding in high vocals and airy melodies without making it sound stupid and cheap (without fucking it all up).

It doesn’t mean anything when you take a solid week to mash Miley Cyrus and Zeds Dead and Dr. Dre. Or when, during the next week, you pair _Titanium_ with _500 miles_ and _Hysteria_. And it definitely doesn’t mean anything when they come out as maybe two of the best mashups you’ve done to date.

Right.  

But it might mean something when you give the mashups (along with a few others you’ve been working on throughout the year) to Chloe as a graduation gift.

 

\---

 

It also might mean something that when Chloe asks you to share an apartment with her, your smile is not even a little sarcastic or phony. It might mean something that you offer up an almost _prayer_ of heartfelt ‘thanks’ that she’s staying at Barden for grad school, even though you haven’t done any sort of communicating with the (potential) guy upstairs since you begged the heavens to put your family back together after your parents split. (And shit, look how at well _that_ had gone.) 

Even the thought of that time isn’t enough to keep the smile away though. Whatever that means.

 

\---

 

Living with Chloe means lots of impromptu singing, America’s Next Top Model marathons, and an exponential increase in the amount of cuddling in your life. You should mind, but you don’t, and you start mixing on the living room couch instead of in your room, because that’s where Chloe studies and rests her head on your shoulder and presses her thigh against yours. 

That last part takes some getting used to. 

It’s not that you’re uncomfortable with people invading your… okay, yeah, you’re uncomfortable with people invading your personal bubble. Touching in a sexual way—that’s okay—that you at least sort of get, but you’ve never really understood the friendship-related/emotional touching thing. It’s always seemed kind of pointless to you, at best, and another form of invasion of privacy, at worst. Your family had always limited affection to handshakes and pats on the back, so maybe that’s where it comes from, but there’s not much of a point in psychoanalyzing the whole thing, because—god—you really, really hate psychology (and isn’t that reason enough?) 

But Chloe is different because she just keeps… not caring that you never initiate hugs or nudges or hand-holds. She just keeps sitting right next to you on that couch, ignoring the space on the other end that could fit, like, _two whole people_ comfortably. She just keeps smiling sweetly when she presses into your side and asks, ‘is this okay?’ 

And before you know it, you’re used to cuddling— _cuddling_!—or, you’re used to cuddling with Chloe, at least, because everyone else still gets your patented ‘fuck-off’ death glare (trademark eleven-year-old you) when they get just a bit too close.

 “Ugh. Look at that! She’s such a skank. Let it go, Bre! It’s a freaking _granola bar_!”

There’s also that; the whole Chloe-getting-you-to-watch-the-America’s-Next-Top-Model-marathons thing. You’d have thought her tastes would focus more on American Idol type stuff, but she finds any singing competition other than _the Sing Off_ dull. And you guess ANTM is many things, but dull isn’t one of them—especially with Chloe as an active participant, yelling at the models and the judges and everyone else. It’s pretty hilarious, really. 

“Are you hearing this, Beca? I swear, if this midget wins…”

“She’s like 5’ 8”!” 

You’re not sure if Chloe’s smile is based off of the fact that—yes—you’ve been paying enough attention to know the stupid model is 5’8”, or because she thinks you’ve said something adorable. It’s probably a little of both. 

“Aw, Becs, don’t even worry. You’re short-adorable—fun-sized and whatnot. This ho’s short-annoying.” 

“I don’t even know what that means, dude.”

The only response you receive is a quick peck on the cheek. 

That’s new.

 

\---

 

Chloe starts worming her way into your mixes—or rather, Chloe starts worming her way into your mixes in an entirely new way (because there’s been a bit more pop in them since you met her, as it is) after about a month of you living together.

“Do you ever try to match the lyrics, instead of just the beats?” She asks from her spot at your side on the couch, fingers playing with the cord of your headphones (which is kind of adorable in a way you’d never, ever mention to anyone). 

“Um. Not really. I don’t really care about lyrics, I guess. Not as much as what’s propping them up.”

“Are you kidding me?” Chloe screeches, and for the first time in the history of forever, pulls away from you (relatively, at least, because her hands just move to the thigh your computer isn’t covering after they slide off from around your waist). “Lyrics are the point, Beca! Lyrics give a song _meaning_! Without lyrics a song is… so hollow.”

It’s nicely put, because isn’t that just perfect; hollow songs for the hollow girl. And then there’s Chloe, who’s all words and feelings and emotions, so of course she can’t understand how someone could function without embracing those things. (And maybe they can’t, you have to think.)

“Not that your mixes aren’t aca-awesome already, obvi,” Chloe winks. “But wouldn’t it be cool if you could, like…” She trails off, peering at the screen (where Na Palm’s _What’s Yo Name_ is just not fitting the way you thought it would with M83), before unplugging your headphones. “Play it—just the rap.”

_My brain must be playing tricks on me_  
 _take no offense I love my ladies!_  
 _Problem is, I got like 80;_  
 _Call me rude but I ain't shady_  
 _Forgot your name; Imma call you baby_

Chloe bobs her head to the beat in a way totally unfitting to the song, but you see what’s she’s doing when she leans a bit closer (as though to whisper in your ear), and quietly starts to sing, “ _Hey, I just met you. And this is crazy. But here’s my number, so call me maybe_?” 

The expression on your face must be hilarious because Chloe starts giggling before she can sing much more, collapsing into your shoulder.

“You’re kidding me,” you say drolly, but you can already see it; the pop-y beat of that god-awful song (that you can’t help but beat your head to) under the slick rhymes of Na Palm. Your fingers are already dancing across your keyboard when Chloe peeks up from your shoulder, a second later, beaming. 

“No! For real; it’s like Carly Rae is actually replying to Na Palm, right? He’s all like, ‘I got all these bitches, giving me numbas’ and she’s all, ‘here’s my number, call me maybe!’” 

You laugh, because it’s charming—this perky redhead saying things like ‘bitches’ and ‘numbas’ and your eyes flitter away from what is the very beginnings of a mix on your screen, to take in her features even further. (To drink them in.)

“Yeah, okay. I get it. Even if that _is_ a terrible song.”

She grins. “A terrible song that you just _happened_ to have on your computer, huh?” You groan, and she favors you with a wink. “But see, Beca? They go together—the music and the lyrics. Keeping them apart in your mind is, like… wrong.” 

You know she’s right and that’s probably when you start thinking about how the deep beat and rhythm of your life might go with the bright lyrics of Chloe’s. It’s not an entirely unpleasant thing to contemplate.

 

\---

 

You try to tell yourself it’s coincidence when, a week later, things end with Jesse.

“You okay?” Chloe asks, crawling into your bed with absolutely no regards to personal space (typical Chloe—absolutely typical). It’s the first time she’s done it, despite all the hours you’ve spent on the couch together basically mashed up into one person, like two songs slipping together seamlessly in a mix. 

So this isn’t too different. Horizontal cuddling, Fat Amy might say. 

And you’ll never admit it, but it feels pretty nice, the way Chloe’s arm slips around you from behind—the way her face nuzzles into the back of your neck.

“Yeah.” You are—okay, that is—but a breakup always sucks, no matter where it falls on the scale of one-sided to mutual to the other one-sided.  

You put all this effort and time into one person and it feels like—not wasted time, exactly—but it feels like maybe if you’d done something different with that time, it all might have worked out and you might have been happy, or something. But you’re okay—mostly relieved, honestly, because Jesse kept trying batter down the walls that you maintain so meticulously, and it had become kind of exhausting, watching him go at it with so little success. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Let’s not turn this into a feelings session, alright?” 

Chloe laughs quietly, her breath tickling at your neck. “Okay, Beca.” One of her legs shifts so that it’s sort of tangled with yours. “No feelings, I promise.”

Your throat swells a little, making it hard for you to swallow, and all you can think is, _too late_.

 

\---

 

It becomes a sort of habit after that—an every night (and sometimes in the middle of the day) sort of habit. 

“I’m always the big spoon,” Chloe whines one day, a couple of weeks after your first… horizontal cuddling. 

“Don’t blame me, Chlo. You always pick the positions.” 

Not to mention you really, really like being the little spoon. But you’re pretty sure you’d rather have hot knives dragged across your body than ever confess _that_ to anyone. You think maybe Chloe already knows though, because her whining is playful, and you can always feel her soft smile against your skin when you let out the involuntary sigh (of relief?) that escapes from your lips when she slides under the covers behind you. 

But despite her teasing tone, you feel a bit bad after like, three seconds of silence. It’s kind of pathetic, this state you’re in now.

“Fine, fine,” you grumble, twisting around so you’re face-to-face with Chloe (and a whole lot closer than you had expected, and well— _shit_ —you can feel her breath against your lips and that’s just not helping anything). “Well? Go ahead.” You manage after a moment. “Turn around.” 

Chloe smiles (soft and knowing) before acquiescing with your request. 

“You’re ruining my street cred with this shit, Chloe.”

Shoulders shake against your chest as Chloe gently laughs. “Being the big spoon? It’s better than the little spoon, honestly. At least this way you’re the HBIC… of cuddling.” 

You groan, but it’s a token protest; at the same time you pull Chloe closer.

 

\---

 

So that’s how you get to Tuesday—to the lounging in Chloe’s bed—to the curling of her hands in your hair—to the sound of her heartbeat in your ear. That’s how you get to the point where Chloe says she’s never kissed a girl and your head comes up and your brain freezes and doesn’t restart until it’s far too late. 

“Well, that’s easily fixed,” you mumble, and maybe you hadn’t meant it like _that_ but you’re basically on top of her and your lips are really close to hers and—well—brushing your lips against hers (just the corner, really) isn’t much of a stretch. 

“I—” Chloe blinks once, and even if you hadn’t been so distracted by her lips, you don’t know that you would have been able to interpret her expression. “Oh. I—I meant like… regularly.” 

There are many definitions of the word, but you’re not thinking of any of them—not when Chloe’s eyes flicker down to your lips and she takes a breath that’s more of a gasp than anything. 

So you kiss her again—regularly—involving open mouths and tongue and then—oh, god—hands that rest on the warm skin of Chloe’s hips, where her shirt has pushed up just an inch or two.

“Oh.” She licks her lips and you think it’s something of an unfair move. “Oh.”

You should apologize, but you don’t, because there’s a smile curling at the corner of Chloe’s lips and a look in her eyes that says she’s surprised, but in that way that she likes (birthday parties and mix tapes left under her pillow and a home-cooked meal after a big exam). 

“I meant on a regular basis,” she breathes. “More than once.” 

And you think that’s pretty easily fixed too.

 

\---

 

You don’t talk about it. Not really. It just becomes a _thing_. You’d basically already been sleeping in the same bed every night, so that’s not a big change; you just add a few new activities to your routine. Like kissing Chloe. Or Chloe kissing you. Or Chloe laying on top of you, grinding her body down on… 

Yeah. New activities. 

But everything else is pretty much the same. Chloe’s still your best friend—the girl who listens to all your mixes and forces you to watch horrible TV (that you secretly enjoy) and breaks out into random bits of song that you can’t help but harmonize with. She’s still your go-to person, and the (only) one you really (like, _really_ ) talk to. It’s just now you do _other_ stuff too—other stuff that leaves you panting and breathless and incredibly, incredibly frustrated in a way you haven’t been in… maybe ever. 

And that’s weird because it’s almost like… the closest thing to a semi-functional romantic relationship that you’ve ever had. 

Of course, neither of you are about to acknowledge that.

 

\---

 

Not that your purposeful overlooking makes the changes invisible to your friends. People have always teased Chloe for her natural touchy-feely-ness, but you think maybe these comments tend to involve you more often than not now. A roll of the eyes and wry smile is almost always enough to deflect any that might have turned into further questioning, though. 

‘Almost’ because of Aubrey Posen, and Aubrey Posen alone. 

She’s off being a big-shot law associate in New York, and so the most you see of her is an occasional glance on Chloe’s laptop screen when they Skype. Honestly, you don’t think the blonde has fully forgiven you for the events of the year (not even after you’d helped them _win_ , but whatever), and this is only aggravated by her odd jealousy over your roomie-status with Chloe. So you don’t really mind the limited interaction (and honestly, are glad for it).

But despite all this, you don’t have to fake your smile at Chloe’s overjoyed reaction when Aubrey is waiting there in your apartment, along with the rest of Chloe’s friends when you open the door for the redhead; Aubrey serving as the metaphorical cherry on top of the sundae that is the surprise birthday party you and the Bellas have been planning for the past few weeks. 

“Bree!” 

The blonde returns the bear hug with an ease and enthusiasm you find yourself a little envious of, but it’s hard for you to feel anything other than content when Chloe jumps back to give you a hug of your own that is just as wholehearted. 

“Did you have something to do with this?” 

You shrug. “The party, yeah, me and the Bellas. But Aubrey called Fat Amy a while back to make sure all the plans were up to her standards. Guess she had to come down to make sure I didn’t screw it all up.” 

Aubrey’s smile is more of a smirk than anything. “That’s right. Hello, Beca.” 

“Aubrey.” 

Chloe, of course, just rolls her eyes. “You guys are so weird. But, Bree! I can’t believe you’re here!” Her eyes flicker to yours for just a second, and your returning nod is imperceptible, but she recognizes it nevertheless, and heads further into the apartment, her arm looped through Aubrey’s as she greets everyone, and catches up with her oldest friend.

 You don’t mind; parties aren’t exactly your thing, and while you don’t mind socializing with the Bellas, all of Chloe’s grad friends are here too, and despite the number of times you’ve met some of them, you can’t remember the name of a single one, and small talk is awkward enough without spending the entire time hoping you don’t have to remember their name at any point in the conversation. Aubrey’s much better at that sort of thing, which is evident from the way she happily chatters with everyone that Chloe introduces her to as they make their way around the room. Whatever. You have other skills and stuff. 

The corner of the couch (where you nurse a Pabst) suits you a whole lot better, and that’s where you remain for most of the party; all the Bella’s come up to you, at one point in time or another, so it’s not like you’re being antisocial, or anything, and you lose track of Chloe after a while. 

It surprises you, therefore, when you find her again toward the end of the night—or rather, she finds you, plopping into your lap without warning, nearly knocking your beer out of your hand as she throws her hands around your neck. 

“Becaaaa.” 

Your eyebrows rise into your hairline. “Uh. Chloe…hey.”

A smirking Aubrey is visible over Chloe’s shoulder, once you push a bit of red hair out of the way, and you shoot her a glare. “Guess you haven’t exactly discouraged the shots tonight, huh?” 

“As if anyone can stop Chloe from doing what she wants.” 

That’s very, very true, and Chloe’s seems to know exactly what she wants next as she nuzzles into your neck, her lips trailing over the skin there. 

“Um…” 

“How fast can you get rid of all these people?” She breathes into your ear. “You’ve no idea, the things I wanna do t’you right now.”  

You suck in a breath of air, but it doesn’t do anything to calm you, or keep the flush of red from your face (or the rush of heat from flashing through your body).

“Uh… um… maybe you should….” You, as gently, as possible, push Chloe off your lap, and stand with her, your hand firm on the small of her back as you both rise. “…Get some water, Chlo.”

She smiles at you, and you hope it doesn’t look as suggestive to anyone who might be viewing it as it does to you. “Oh, alllright. Spoilsport.”

A sigh escapes you when she skips away (or tries to—it’s really more of a drunken hop), but your relief is cut short when you catch the shrewd look Aubrey is casting in your direction. 

“What?” 

The woman’s head tilts slightly. “What’s up with you two?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“That. Just now.”

“Please,” you drawl (or try to). “You know how Chloe is when she’s drunk—all… affectionate.” 

“Yeah…” You really wish Aubrey would stop looking at you like you’re a puzzle to be solved. “But normally you’re…” 

“What?” 

She shakes her head, and the look disappears, much to your relief. “Nothing. Never mind.”    

 But Aubrey gives you another strange look over her shoulder when she goes to check on Chloe. You don’t really know how to feel about that.

 

\---

 

It should be a warning sign that you should be more careful, but you’re not, especially after Aubrey leaves. There’s a pool party the next weekend, and maybe it’s the gin bucket that causes you to lightly trail your fingertips across Chloe’s inner thigh when you’re in the hot tub together, but it’s more likely just the sight of the redhead in her bikini (because _damnn)_. 

You both excuse yourselves from the party pretty quickly after that. Getting back to your apartment, however, takes longer than it should, because— _god_ —you really can’t help yourself from touching the parts of Chloe that are exposed, and she knows by now _just_ where to kiss you (the spot under your ear, the curve of your neck, the skin on the inside of your wrist) to turn you into a hormonal teenage boy.

But you do make it there, stumbling through your door and shutting it behind you with a very firm slam. And then Chloe has you pressed up against the wall of your hallway and her hands are whipping off the tank top that’s soaking wet (you hadn’t had enough patience to thoroughly dry off before pulling it on over your top) and then moving to the ties of your bikini and— _holy Jesus_ —she makes quick work of those and suddenly her hands are on your breasts and you’re pretty sure your eyes roll back into your head. 

“Oh— _shit_ —Chloe!”

 Her reply is whispered into a kiss, and you have a hard time focusing on the words rather than the movement of her lips against yours, but you catch the gist. “This okay?”

There has never been anything more okay, but you don’t know how to say that, so you just shove off the wall and push Chloe towards your bedroom (it’s closer), fingers tugging at the knot at the back of her neck that is keep your skin from being completely flush against hers. By the time you’re in your room, you’ve gotten the stupid thing undone, but your distraction over what’s revealed as the tiny (but at the same time, way too large) scrap of fabric drops is great enough so that Chloe is able to switch your positions and shove you down onto the bed without you even comprehending what’s happening. It’s not exactly something you’re going to complain about though. 

Especially when, as she leans down to kiss you again (pressing up against you in a way that makes you want to whimper), her hand slides down your side until she reaches your hip bone, which she traces with light fingertips to the top of your shorts—still damp from when you’d thrown them on over your wet bikini bottom. A whimper does escape you at that, and Chloe pulls her lips away from yours, the slightest bit.

“Do you…?” 

You’ll probably die if the rest of the question isn’t somewhere along the lines of ‘…want me to do you right now?’, so you just cut her off. You think maybe the time for playing hard to get, or whatever, has long, long passed.

“Yes. _God_ , yes.” 

You’ve apparently said something right, because Chloe smiles (smirks, possibly) and kisses your jawline, and most importantly, her hand continues on its path to slip under your shorts and swim suit bottom and—fucking hell—to press right into you and— _mother-of-god_ —there’s not even a little hesitation when her thumb brushes against just the right spot that makes you nearly jerk of the bed. And— _shit_ —how does Chloe even know how to _do_ this?  

But you don’t care. You don’t care. You _definitely_ don’t care.

“Hhgn.” You also don’t care that you are making approximately zero sense with the not-even-slightly-close-to-coherent-words noises that are coming out of your mouth. Well, aside from the one, “Chloe! Ah…Fuck!” Or two.   

In an embarrassingly short amount of time (you think—maybe—because it’s hard to think about time passing or—well—anything really—other than the movement of Chloe’s fingers) you’re coming undone and there’s a current—an honest-to-god _current_ running through you and… and.. and… words aren’t really _there_ anymore. 

And then you’re left, out-of-breath and boneless, blinking up at Chloe and wondering why the hell you haven’t done _that_ before now. And you want to say a lot of things right then. Poignant, mind-blowing, awesome things that will wrap the whole thing up perfectly.

“Holy shit,” you say instead. 

Chloe’s grin is smug, but you figure she’s earned the right to grin like that.

_Holy shit._

 

\---

 

“It’s come to my attention that I _may_ have underestimated the amount of lesbianism in our group,” Fat Amy says after making the Bellas all sit down in for an ‘emergency announcement’. 

You don’t stiffen, not really, and the blood doesn’t rush to your face in some kind of cheesy teenager blush, but you do stop with your typical fidgeting (the taps of your shoe and the twisting on your ring and the slight bob of your head that you’d never really realized you did until a certain redhead pointed it out to you with a fond smile). Had Chloe been there, she would have immediately noticed the shift. 

But no one else knows you that well, and even if they did, everyone’s too busy rolling their eyes at Amy as she continues. 

“And I don’t want anyone to think I don’t own up to my mistakes. I mean, I know they’re rare. Since I’m aca-awesome. But I’m not 100% perfect. Just, like… 99.7%.” 

It occurs to you that Fat Amy’s looking at Stacie and not you, and you feel this weird emotion that you have no idea how to describe; it’s relief, but a sort of disappointment too, and what the hell does that even mean? 

“Look, for the record, I like sex,” Stacie says, and everyone lets out a collective laugh/grumble, because— god— if you all know _one_ thing about _anyone_ in the group, it’s that Stacie likes sex. “Why would I limit my options?” 

“So would you estimate our collective group lesbianism to be at, like, 1.5 out of 10? That’s fair, yeah? So, what’s that even mean? Maths was never really _me_ , see.” 

Everyone groans, and you sink further into your seat, letting Cynthia Rose take the reins on this one.

 

\---

 

It’s not a lesbian thing—okay, poor word choice—because you and Chloe are both ladies doing some serious lady loving, so— _yeah_ —but that’s not the reason for the secrecy. It’s really not. It’s a… _commitment_ thing. It’s a taking-another-big-step-in-a-relationship-that-means-more-to-you-than-any-other-one-has sort of thing.  _Telling_ people about it would just… it would make it so _real_ —so concrete and permanent and official, and you’re afraid as soon as that happens you won’t be able to back out. 

You think Chloe understands, and for all her warmth and openness, you think she might be a little afraid of the same thing, because sure—Chloe opens herself to the people into her life with an easiness you find alarming—but this is _different_ , isn’t it? Chloe, when it comes to ‘romance’, is about easy make outs and frat boy sex and you’ve never heard her talk about being all… rom-com with someone.

But you don’t know for sure until one night on the couch, when you’re sprawled out on your back with your head in Chloe’s lap (because—dammit—it’d been a helluva week and you’re tired and drained and you needed someone to run their fingers through your hair and scratch at your scalp with short, but sharp nails).

“I think… I think I could fall in love with you.”   

And you might be drowsy, but when Chloe whispers _that_ (so softly you barely catch it) you shoot up from your comfortable position so quickly that you’re pretty sure some of your hair gets torn out. 

“What? Are you serious?” 

Chloe’s not looking at you, and her lips are pressed firmly together, as though to keep the bottom one from trembling. 

“I mean—uh…” Words have never been your thing, but when it comes to this, you’re _really_ lost. “I mean… I don’t want you to get hurt, Chloe. You’re—you’re my best friend.”

There’s a terrible moment of silence, after which Chloe nods.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.” 

“Yeah,” you say, and it feels wrong. “The—uh—the kissing part—and the—you know.” 

Chloe nods again and you don’t know whether you’re relieved or… something else. Something else that might feel like your heart dropping out through your stomach.

 

\---

 

 _That_ resolution lasts about two days.

And then you’re back to Chloe pushing you into her bed and making you come undone under her fingers.

It’s amazing—exhilarating—mind-blowing. 

But it shouldn’t be happening because Chloe said she could fall in love with you and _shitshitshit._

 

\---

 

( _The scariest part is that, sometimes, you think you could fall in love with her too)_

\---

 

Sometimes. 

Like when _Every Chance We Get We Run_ (David Guetta, of course) is playing through your crappy earbuds as you unlock the front door and step through. But never has a song applied to a moment in time _less_ than it does at that instant, because Chloe is in the kitchen, her back to you, wearing your new M50s ( _that’s where they’d gone_ , you realize belatedly) and absolutely rocking out to something (something that you’re pretty sure must be hip hop, because she’s shaking it like nobody’s business) and when she turns around to greet you without stilling, a beaming smile in place, you’ve never felt as content as you do right then.

That’s when you think—you can’t help but think, _maybe._

It’s terrifying, but you think, _maybe_.

 

\---

 

Despite the absence of Aubrey, the Bellas still have team bonding movie nights. You’re not sure, exactly, how it happened, because it sure as hell wasn’t your idea, but there’s not much you can do about it now aside from drag Chloe along so you can at least whisper sarcastic comments about the characters/plot/whatever-you’re-displeased-with to her throughout the movie. 

But this week is worse than usual because it’s a goddamn Disney movie marathon, and when a bunch of a cappella chicks get together to watch Disney movies, there’s an inevitable ending to it all; it turns into a fucking _sing-a-long_. 

They’re on Snow White now, and honestly, you’ve never been much of a fan, because the stupid girl shouldn’t have eaten that apple in the first place. (Who the hell’s gonna accept an apple from a creepy witch-looking lady, anyways?) But whatever. Chloe, who’s practically a Disney princess herself, is loving it, and she’s draped herself over you on the couch, so you’re warm and comfy and content, high-pitched singing aside. 

You’re basically tuning it out until the seven dwarves start singing during their slave labor scene, and Lily, who’s siting on the other side of you, starts laying down a beat under her breath, and you sit up a bit straighter because you _know_ that bass, and it fits the goddamn song absolutely perfectly, and how are you supposed to resist _that_?

“ _Well I ain’t sayin’ she a gold digger._ ” You rasp, and Lily’s beats get louder. “ _But she ain't messin' with no broke, no broke_.”

Everyone laughs at first, but it actually sounds absolutely sick, and soon the movie’s pretty much forgotten as it turns into a full-fledged jam session. And then your laptop somehow gets brought out (you blame Chloe, of course) and everyone’s up, dancing around like crazy people, rapping out the words they know. 

But your favorite part is how Chloe moves against you, back rubbing into your front, her rhythm matching the _takkity, takkity, taka-taka-taka_ of your heart, and when she spins around to face you, her hip pressing into you in just the right way; it takes a lot of self-control to not kick everyone out of your apartment right then. Self-control that flies out of the window as soon as she starts singing, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “Get down girl, go ‘head get down.” 

You know you’re not sneaky when you shove her off the impromptu dance floor and push her against the inside of the door of your bathroom and do things to her that have her biting at her knuckles to keep quiet. But you’re really not in a state to stop yourself, god help you. 

Cynthia Rose does give you a wink later on when everyone’s leaving though, whispering about something being hot. So there’s that. 

 

\---

 

“Damn, girl! You look like you’ve been banging like a dunny door in a gale!” 

You think it’s the sort of proclamation that’s meant to draw attention to you, and not the blonde Australian who utters it, but as usual, Fat Amy has overestimated how understood she is by the rest of the group. 

“Seriously. It’s like you’re speaking another language.” 

Fat Amy rolls her eyes and, before you can stop her, tugs at the collar of your shirt, pulling it down to reveal the dark marks decorating the side of your neck that you were unable to cover with makeup, despite your best efforts. 

“Damnn,” Stacie whistles. “Get it, girl!” 

Even Lily is looking at you in curiosity now (which is _terrifying_ because you’re pretty positive this girl has killed several people in the past and you’d much rather just slip under her radar) as you fight the blush that threatens to break out, and do everything in your power to keep from glancing over at Chloe. 

“It’s nothing,” you mumble, moving away from Fat Amy while simultaneously pulling up your collar. 

“DJ Aca-Slut—busting out the moves!” Fat Amy shouts, drawing the attention of several passers-by (and then several more when she breaks out into some of the moves she seems to think you’ve employed—a sort of whole-body roll that ends in a vigorous booty shake).

You grumble to yourself and glare at each of the Bellas individually in turn. “It’s nothing.”

“Incident with the flat iron, then?” Her voice is innocent, but when your glare turns to Chloe, there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye that you’re sure everyone else _must_ be able to see. The look remains as the Bellas grill you on your ‘burn marks’ for the next ten minutes.  

You’re going to _kill_ her.

 

\---

 

You’re going to kill her. You’re going to kill Chloe Beale and no one will even be able to find even a _piece_ of her body. 

Because _Titanium_ has just come on your iPod and instead of it just being a kick-ass song, now it’s a _lady jam_ —it’s _Chloe_ ’s lady jam, which means it’s now basically _your_ lady jam, and there’s some real Pavlov shit going on right now because as soon as those first chords hit it’s like your body _knows_ it’s about to get some. 

Even though that’s not true at all, and you’re supposed to be starting practice with the Bellas in like, five minutes, but your body is not even slightly listening. And, holy shit, you don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on in your life—definitely not from musical alone, for christssake. 

You probably shouldn’t have listened to the entire song, either. 

“You okay, DJ B?”

Had you been less distracted, you would have at least rolled your eyes at the stupid nickname. But as it is, it’ll be a miracle if you manage to get anything out that’s even slightly coherent. 

“Beca? Seriously, you okay? Y’look kinda red. You got a fever or something?” Cynthia Rose puts a hand to your forehead and you flinch a little. “Yeah, maybe you should just go home, girl. I’ll take care of practice today, alright?” 

You shouldn’t, you _really_ shouldn’t. Of all the reasons to skip out on practice, this is probably the worst one. But… it’s a Thursday, which is Chloe’s easy day, which means she’s probably home, wearing one of those long button up shirts (and nothing else) that she likes to lounge in and… well, how are you supposed to resist the thought of that? 

Answer: you’re not. You can’t. 

So you nod weakly and leave the auditorium, trying not to look too eager (a façade that slips as soon as you’re outside the building and practically power walking to your apartment). And thank god that all the people who would normally dare to stop you as you slouch through campus are tied up in rehearsal, because you’re not about to stop for anyone—in fact, you only stop when you reach the door to your apartment and fumble with your key to get the damn thing to open.  

When you do manage it, it opens with a loud bang that has Chloe (in the kitchen, wearing the very shirt you’d imagined on her) jumping up and spinning around to face you. 

“Beca? What the he…?” 

You make it to her in about four strides (you’ve never been so thankful for having such a small kitchen) and cut her off by slamming her against the nearest surface (the refrigerator—it shakes a bit, and a few scraps of paper, along with the magnets holding them, fall to the ground) and pressing your lips to hers.

It’s a bit rough, because your teeth scrap against hers, and your hands grasp for her wrists and shove them up against the fridge with more force than you’d meant to deliver, and you think you might bite down on her lower lip a bit too hard, but Chloe’s soft groan says she doesn’t really mind. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture,” Chloe says (once you pull back), sounding out-of-breath (but still managing that teasing tone). “But you’re kind of short for this, aren’t you?” She nods towards the grip you have on her wrists, and you let go without another word. “Okay, that was not an invite for you to stop with…”

She trails off as you drop to your knees, your hands sliding up her thighs and under her shirt. 

“Oh.” She swallows, and you can’t help the smirk that tilts your lips when she lets out a whimper as your fingers hook around the top of her underwear and pull them down. “Oh.”

 

\--

 

“It's like we're living a movie,” Chloe sighs afterwards, her back sliding down the refrigerator until she slumps onto the floor beside you, leaning into your shoulder.

You snort. “More like a porno.” 

“A porno with feelings,” Chloe corrects, but then bites her lip and looks away because you're not supposed to talk about that. 

But you take her hand and smile in a way that you normally don't –unrestrained and emotive—and it’s kind of stupid, because you’re on the floor of your kitchen after taking her against a _refrigerator_ , for godssake, but Chloe makes you feel like that at pretty much any time—stupidly happy. 

“A porno with feelings, eh? I can live with that.”

 

\---

 

You think about that for a while. And you come to the conclusion that if it were true— if your time with Chloe was being watched by horny college dudes (which, number one—gross, and number two—well, gross again) they would probably do a whole lot of fast forwarding. Because—yes—you and Chloe often do things like have sex up against a refrigerator or reenact your first shower meeting (with a highly modified ending) or make good use of your (self-taught) Boy Scout rope tying skills… but most of the time you're just _together_. You eat together most every night, you spend all your free time together, and you talk about your days—the things and people that bugged you or made you happy—together.

Even in your head, it kind of sounds like you’re this happily married perfect couple that makes everyone else sick with how madly in love with each other you are. And while not even a half a year ago you would have rolled your eyes at the thought of something so cheesy (and implausible), now… now you think it’s not so bad, this whole falling in love with someone thing—this whole _being_ in love with someone thing. Because you have—you are—and that’s pretty much the bottom line, isn’t it? 

“What are we doing?” 

Chloe tenses up beside you, her arms stiffening around you, and you lift your head from her chest and prop yourself up on your elbow to give yourself a better view of the woman who has so effectively intertwined herself into your life. 

“What—what do you mean?” 

It’s not hard to see why it happened, really; Chloe’s gorgeous, of course, but you think it’s in the eyes—large and blue and so very expressive—that the real reason can be found. Because Chloe’s the lyrics to your beat, or something equally cheesy, and there’s something about her enthusiasm, her cheer, and her openness, that counters your sarcasm, surliness, and closed personality (and headphones); and, more importantly, brings out the parts of you that you only let loose in private, when all that is truly _you_ floods your mixes with life and vitality and energy. 

And it’s probably the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, taking so long to recognize that—to embrace that.

“I mean,” you say, fingers brushing gently over one of Chloe’s cheekbones. “What are we doing, pretending we aren’t in a real relationship?” 

Chloe gapes at you, and you really hope you aren’t suddenly about to be shut down. It hadn’t occurred to you in your moment of glee that such a thing could even happen. That was the danger of feelings like love—they were blinding and stupid and should always, always, always be ignored and you can’t believe you’d been such a moron to actually think… 

“I—I thought you…” Chloe smiles then, and it’s amazing how quickly that destroys all your doubts. “I thought you didn’t want to…” 

“I’m kinda in love with you, Chloe Beale. And I kinda want everyone to know.”

She nods—nods and grins at you with the brightest expression you’ve ever seen on her face, and you can’t believe that you were the one that put it there. She kisses you, too—surges up and presses her lips to yours sweetly. 

“Y’know… I think you’re supposed to saying something in reply.” 

“Oh?” Her grin widens, if that’s even possible. “Alright, then. I guess I’m kind of in love with you too.” 

And maybe it’s not the greatest declaration of love, but it feels pretty damn perfect to you. 

 

\---

 

“Well, bugger me! That’s 2.5 out of 10!” Fat Amy says when you both tell everyone. 

“25%,” Stacie nods, and when everyone spins around to look at her in something like shock, she growls at them. “Seriously? Jesus! It’s _simple_ math! And I’m a goddamn _math major_.”

Somehow, that’s a whole lot more shocking to everyone than you and Chloe being a _thing_ , and if you weren’t so content, having the redhead snuggle up to your side, you might actually be offended how quickly everyone ignores the both of you.


End file.
